by Patrick Gale
‘Well, shut the door at least.’
‘Why should I shut the bloody door?’ She wailed on, pulling it wider. She ran onto the top step and yelled into the rain, ‘I’m crying! I’m crying for my poor mad boy!’
She felt his arm warm round her shoulders and allowed herself to be led through the hall to the kitchen. He went to shut the door then came back in and poured them each a whisky.
‘Drink this,’ he said.
She did as she was told, knocking it back. She remembered to cough so he wouldn’t know how often she helped herself to the bottle. She noticed the glass in his hand.
‘Peter, you’re drinking!’
‘Of course I’m bloody drinking,’ he said then poured them each another. She drank her second glass in fast sips.
‘What shall we do now?’ she asked. ‘We can’t go to Paris now.’
‘We could go upstairs and change.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Let’s go up and change, then.’
‘Yes. Do let’s.’
They were just leaving the room when there was a knock at the back door. Andrea ran to open it. It was a very wet Faber and a slightly less soaked Iras. Iras had a mac on.
‘Look who it is,’ said Andrea.
‘I rode on his bicycle basket,’ said Iras. ‘We went incredibly fast. The rain felt great. Is that you, Peter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello.’
‘Hi. Long time no meet.’ He ruffled her hair.
‘Where’s Brevity?’ she asked.
‘Upstairs, hiding,’ he told her.
‘Faber come in,’ Andrea called, ‘You’re getting wetter by the second.’ Faber stayed put.
‘Is Robin here?’ he asked.
‘He’s just gone. Faber, it was awful.’
‘I know. How do I get to Whelm?’
‘Train from Waterloo to Cloud Regis then a boat. You have to ask at the marina about those. They’re pretty irregular.’
‘What makes you think he’s gone there?’ Peter asked.
‘Faber knows,’ said Iras.
Faber laughed grimly at her.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Faber knows.’ Andrea had run to find him a coat. She tossed him one Peter used to use in the garden. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and started down to his bicycle again. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, coming back. ‘If the police or anyone comes, you don’t know anything and you haven’t seen me. Robin’s gone. That’s all you know.’
‘The police?’ gasped Andrea.
‘If you hurry you might catch him before he gets on the train,’ said Peter. Faber sped away, and Peter shut the back door to keep out the rain.
‘You’ve both been drinking whisky,’ said Iras. ‘I can smell it on your breaths.’
‘We felt we needed it,’ said Andrea.
‘Could I have some? It’s meant to be good for chills.’
‘Certainly not. I’ll make you some cocoa. Give me your mac and dry yourself on this towel.’
She threw herself into heating milk for Iras’s cocoa and finding something for their supper. Peter went upstairs to watch the news.
‘Hey!’ he shouted down to them almost at once. ‘It’s Candida.’
‘What’s new?’ Andrea shouted back.
‘Robin and Faber call her Candida Albicans,’ said Iras. ‘What’s thrush?’
‘No, she’s not reading it,’ Peter continued. ‘I mean it’s about her. Come and see.’
Forty-Two
As though her mind were wading through deep, dark water, Candida became slowly aware of the smell of dirt and oil close by, then of an immense noise and then, in waves, of intense pain on the back of her head. She opened her mouth a little then shut it because of the dust. She tasted blood.
‘So, I’m not dead,’ she thought.
Suddenly the noise increased, she had the terrible sensation of something large and black starting to move over her head and all at once she remembered she was lying under a train. She screamed blue murder. The nearby shouts redoubled and the movement overhead stopped.
‘I’m not dead,’ she added for good measure and was pleased to discover that at least she could talk. Apart from the pain on her head she felt no particular discomfort, but she had often heard how one lost all feeling on the chewing-off of legs or arms during shark attacks. Presumably the principle was not so different concerning tube trains. She tried to picture a future as an intensely popular but utterly reclusive radio personality and, as if in panic, felt her toes wriggling.
‘Ms Thackeray, can you hear me?’ some idiot shouted.
‘Yes,’ she said, politely as she could.
‘Can you move at all?’
‘Not much. I don’t think I’ve broken anything.’
Where’s my bag? Christ, where’s my bag? she thought, and felt wildly about her. Her fingers made contact with familiar battered suede and tugged it nearer. ‘And my hands work too,’ she thought. ‘Praise be.’
‘Right-ho,’ the idiot went on. ‘The thing is, the train’s emergency brake has jammed at the back so we couldn’t reverse it and get to you straight away.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Fifteen minutes or so. But someone’s climbed into the tunnel and uncoupled the rest of the carriages from the front one so we can drive it forward and set you free.’
‘Can’t I just crawl out?’
‘That’s the trouble. You fell just on the wrong side of a concrete support. If you feel in front of you you should find a sort of wall.’
Candida felt and found.
‘Ah,’ she said, thinking of rats and catching a preliminary whiff of hysteria. ‘So what do I do?’
‘Just get as low as you can and don’t move an inch. You were very lucky to miss the conductor rail.’
‘Where is it?’ she asked, panicking slightly.
‘To your left. The opposite side from the platform you fell off. Just stay put and we’ll help you climb out in a second. OK?’
‘Fine.’ Her voice shook involuntarily.
‘Just tell us when you’re ready.’
‘Now seems as good a time as any.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ready.’
‘Here goes then. Let’s get this show on the road.’
Idiot, she thought. Star for a Day.
The darkness overhead began to shift again. Terrified, Candida shut her eyes tight. Then, over the noise of the train, she just made out the whirring of automatic cameras winding on their film.
Viewing figures, she thought, to distract her thoughts from pain. A Sunday supplement profile. She clutched the bag tighter to her. The train rolled clear and several fools jumped down to help her. She opened her eyes and saw a big crowd pressing up against a yellow Police cordon and no less than three television cameras trained on her. She pictured the studio boss’s face, then herself treading on it. Leaning gracefully on someone’s arm then heavily when she found that both her legs had gone to sleep, she allowed herself to be helped upright and borne to safety on an assortment of strong male hands. Her skirt rode up. She let it rise. A doctor jumped forward and started examining the back of her head.
‘Who was he?’ shouted someone.
‘Did he push you or did you push him?’
‘What was the story you were after in Clapham, Ms Thackeray?’
‘It was a suicide attempt,’ someone else shouted. ‘We have witnesses. Who was he, Ms Thackeray? Why did he want to die?’
‘Poor Dob,’ she sighed. Then she saw her blood on a cloth that someone had dabbed to the back of her head and felt her long legs give way. As they lifted her onto a stretcher and bore her to a waiting ambulance she felt somone take her hand and heard Jake say,
‘Candida. Thank God you’re all right!’
A chorus followed.
‘Quick. It’s the husband.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Did you know the man, Mr Thackeray?’
‘He’s called Browne, idiot.’
She squeezed the hand back and flattened her tongue on the roof of her mouth to make her chin look firmer.
‘On millions of family screens across the country,’ she told herself. ‘Candida Thackeray comes back from the dead. Bless you, Robin. Bless you.’
When Jake climbed into the ambulance beside her for the last photo-call before tomorrow morning, he would find a peaceful smile on her perfect, dusty lips.
Forty-Three
Luck of some sort enabled Robin to catch the last boat that was sailing to Whelm that evening. It was the fisherman who brought the post across in the mornings, the one who had ferried him away from Whelm.
‘I’ve got their new boiler,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get here till half an hour ago. If you help me carry it up there, I’ll take you over for nothing.’
‘Done,’ said Robin.
‘Come back, have you?’ the fisherman asked, ‘Seen the error of your ways?’
Robin said nothing, so the fisherman left him alone, started the engine and sent them chugging through the darkness.
The boiler was about the size of a family fridge and just as heavy. The rain had turned the island paths to slippery mud and the fisherman was old and tired. They had to stop every twenty shuffles to set the boiler down and let him find his breath. A grizzle-haired monk Robin didn’t know, a visitor perhaps, opened the gate to them. Unsmiling, he paid the fisherman and sent him away then hoisted his half of the boiler with unexpected strength and they carried it through to the kitchen. The place was silent and Robin realised that compline was over and all the rest were in bed.
‘So you’ve come back,’ the monk said.
‘Yes. Do you know who I am?’
‘I’ve heard enough idle talk to guess.’
‘I need to talk to Jonathan.’
‘You can’t. The Abbot’s asleep, they’re all asleep. Anyway, he’s sick.’
‘It’s important.’
‘It’ll have to wait. Have you eaten?’
‘Yes,’ Robin said. He hadn’t but frustration at having arrived so late left him no appetite for anything but sleep. He was wet and shivering.
‘Your old room’s still empty. You’ll find sheets in the linen room.’ The monk sat at the kitchen table, opened a large, foreign-looking book and in seconds was absorbed in it.
Robin found his way to his old room without turning on a single light. The linen room was just across the corridor. The hot water pipes that ran through it were cold as the grave. He wondered how long they had been without a boiler. He took a couple of blankets and a bare pillow, flung himself with them onto his damp mattress and lost himself in blank exhaustion.
‘Robin, wake up.’
His shoulder was being rubbed through the blanket. He was one acute ache.
‘Robin!’
More rubbing. The ache grew worse as the smell of the damp mattress and the abrasive rumple of slept-in clothes reminded him that he was far from Faber’s. He clutched the blankets closer for warmth and sat up. It was Luke. He was smiling.
‘I was coming out of the linen store and I saw you lying here,’ he said. ‘What a surprise!’
‘I’ve come back, Luke,’ said Robin.
‘I gathered that. Why?’
‘I want to join. I want to be a novice.’
‘I can’t believe that for a moment.’
‘Nor can I, really. But it’s what I want. I can’t be anywhere else. Not now. Luke!’ Robin saw Luke’s new habit. ‘You’ve gone all the way. They’ve sworn you in.’
‘Last week,’ Luke said, proudly. ‘I thought it was time I took the plunge. It was partly Jonathan falling sick, too. I’ve been sitting in his room a lot, reading to him and talking with him. It helped me make up my mind.’
He was so happy, sitting on Robin’s bed. He looked so complete, healthy. Smug?
‘Damn you,’ Robin said. ‘Damn you all.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Help me, then.’
‘I’ll try. What’s happened?’
‘What time is it?’
‘I’m not sure. About six, I think. Maybe later. It’ll be light properly soon.’
Robin sat up completely and swung his legs round so that he was sitting with his back against the wall. He shivered at the touch of cold paintwork on his neck and tugged the blankets around him like a shawl.
‘I’ve killed someone,’ he said.
‘Who?’ Luke stopped looking smug.
‘That’s irrelevant. But I’ve gone and killed them. I pushed them under a train. Or they fell because I was trying to stop them. I’m not sure now.’ Luke hugged him. Robin pushed him off. ‘It was Candida.’
‘Your friend who’d just had the baby?’
‘Yes,’ Robin snapped, mimicking him. ‘My friend who’d just had a bloody baby. I was having an attack and she misunderstood and ran after me. I think she thought I was going to kill myself or something daft. She grabbed me and I pushed her away or she pushed me. I don’t know. And then she sort of slipped down through my arms and went under the train.’
‘Are you sure she was killed?’
‘Of course she was killed. She went under a train, you silly prick.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Anyway. I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I came straight here.’
‘I’m glad you did.’
Luke’s quietness and sympathy enraged Robin, and reminded him why he had come here. He grabbed him by the silly neck and began to throttle him.
‘Damn you,’ Robin said. ‘Damn you and damn Jonathan and damn you all with your apples and beeswax and damn those fat, sick, peculiar women on the island next door. You should never have let me go. It’s all your fault. You should never have let me go. You should have kept me here. Locked me up. Forced me to be a monk. I would have been if you’d forced me. I’d have sworn to anything. I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready. But you were all so bloody sympathetic and undemanding and you went and let me go and now she’s gone and fallen under a train.’
He released Luke’s neck, throwing him back against the wall. Luke’s cowl flopped upwards as he went so he didn’t crack his skull, but Robin could see that the violence had woken him up. Luke wasn’t smiling now and he was frightened too. Robin could tell because he didn’t even rub his neck, which must have been hurting him.
‘Listen,’ Luke said.
‘No,’ Robin went on. ‘You always made me listen. You all pretended to listen to what I was saying and none of you ever lectured me or preached at me but you did it around me, over my head, behind my back. You thought that that way it wouldn’t count and that you wouldn’t be to blame if anything went wrong. All those phoney ideas about love and sacrifice and stillness and sympathy and contemplation. It’s too passive to be anything but phoney. It may make sense here but out there it’s just sex, money, achievement and influence. Nothing else counts. Nothing else works. Love and sacrifice don’t work out there. Love is for babies and children. Love for adults is something you’re expected to grow out of and be cynical about. Things won’t last here, either. Look at you,’ he shouted, angry because he wasn’t talking logically and Luke always had quiet logic at his command. ‘Your abbot falls sick, the boiler breaks down and the whole place tumbles down around you. You’ll turn into sharks too, overnight.’
‘What?’
‘Sharks. It’s a turn of phrase.’ Robin stood and stumbled, sleep-lame, to the window. A thin dawn had broken. The post-boat was arriving. ‘Candida should have pushed me,’ he said quietly.
‘Look,’ Luke insisted. Robin turned and saw that Luke had stood. He was furious, cheeks white, green eyes black. Robin had never seen him like that before. Perhaps it was something to do with becoming a monk. The new black cassock dignified him. Robin was frightened and his exhaustion swept back. If Luke hit him he would crumple. Then, perhaps, he would leave him alone. ‘Look,’ Luke repeated. ‘That’s an evil thing to say. Candida loved you. She was trying to show you that.’
&
nbsp; (‘I love you,’ she had hissed. Her face was all wrong with fear but the words remained.)
Robin thought he felt the first cold touches of an attack, or was this feeling fear?
‘Your mother and father loved you and still do. Candida’s husband. The weak man with the fancy job …’
‘Jake.’
‘Yes. Jake. Jake loved you, in his way. He found it impossible and tried to ignore it but he loved you. Jonathan here loves you, even though he’s probably dying. If I ran up there now and told him you were here he would smile. That’s love. That artist you were introduced to at the baptism.’
‘Faber Washington.’
‘Yes. Him. He would love you. I could tell. That’s why I felt safe leaving you there as I did. All this love makes your life worthwhile. Not just for your pleasure, though that will come, but because a life lived wholly is an occasion for love.’
‘Occasion for love. Where did you steal that quaint …’
‘Shut up!’ Luke spat. ‘It’s an occasion for love. And for what it’s worth, I love you too.’
Robin remembered the wind in apple trees, the rustle of paper, the scent of new fruit.
‘You don’t love me,’ he jeered, ‘You just fancy my unecclesiastical body.’
Now Luke did punch him. In the stomach. Winded, Robin doubled up and tottered about gasping like a stranded fish. Luke led him to the bed and let him collapse on the edge of it. There were sounds of other men rising. Taps were turned on, lavatories flushed. Doors shut and opened. Mumbled early morning greetings. Luke shut the door and came to stand by Robin.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘That’s OK.’
‘You made me promise to explain everything once,’ he said. ‘Remember?’ Robin nodded, watching his sockless, sandalled feet beneath his habit. He never used to punish himself like that. ‘And I said that if you’d wait, I’d show you. Well, you’re too stupid to be shown, or too obstinate, or too bound up in your own useless attractions and dislikes. Robin, I came here for exactly the same reason as you – innocence and a tendency to love too much without trying to understand. Very dull really. A very common complaint. I met her at technical college. She was training to be an engineer like me. She wasn’t beautiful or anything, but she was blonde and witty – and not many people were, there, I can tell you – and she gave me time. And time and time. I worshipped her. We went to the cinema. We drove miles to look at bridges. We sat together in lectures about the history of rivetting. And I never laid a finger on her so, after a month or so and quite understandably, she went off with the first bloke who did, who just happened to be my best friend.